


First Blood

by Skalidra



Series: 100 Prompts [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Anal Sex, Biting, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Earth-3, Jason Todd is a Talon, Knifeplay, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sadism, Scratching, Tim Drake is a Talon, mild bloodplay, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Damian is the youngest of four 'brothers,' as the latest Talon to Owlman. The four Talons - ex and current - play all sorts of games, but there's one that Damian's never been invited to join. Not before now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Another of the 100 Prompts here; 17, 'Blood', and the request was for Talon Pile. Because they're all greedy bastards, there are actually going to be four chapters of this. I've written three of them. To clarify, this is an Earth-3 world where you've got all the Batboys as Owlboys/Talons instead, and they're all quite polyamorous. This, is lovely Damian's first time among the group (and it's from his PoV, so prepare yourself for lots of 'Drake', 'Todd', and 'Grayson'). Enjoy!

It is always a gamble with his family.

On one hand, being taken by the arm and led off by his eldest 'sibling' — not that any of them actually see each other as _brothers_ , precisely — could be the precursor to training, or being shown something interesting, or a dozen other things he will thoroughly enjoy. After all, Grayson may be playfully vicious even at the best of times, but that is not necessarily a negative. Even if the eldest of them has decided that he wants to 'play,' which is a misleading way to say, 'tear you apart on the training mats,' it will still be educational. One doesn't learn from Grayson without suffering a bit of blood loss, and generally a scar or two.

On the other hand, there are equally unpleasant things that could be about to happen. Grayson is very, very rarely kind, and very much enjoys catching people off guard. It's not as though Grayson is likely to hurt him _that_ badly, not to the point of anything truly crippling, but it is not as distant a possibility as he would like that this surprise 'request' for his time could be something unpleasant.

Still, there is no _denying_ their eldest. Even his father rarely tells Grayson no; it's the safer bet for the continued health of everyone involved.

He allows Grayson to lead him out of the living room he'd been relaxed in, fingers firm around his lower arm. It is a sign of how secure Grayson is in the belief that he, as well as his other ‘brothers,’ will fall in line when it's asked, that Grayson doesn't even look back to make sure he's alright with being led like this. Or perhaps Grayson simply knows that no one among his siblings would dare deny him. Either way, beyond the first smile and the wordless pull at his arm, Grayson doesn't look at him.

They head upwards instead of down, and he readjusts his theories to compensate for the fact that they are not heading down into the Roost, as he somewhat expected. Instead it's up the stairs; bedrooms, other studies, the roof...

Where _are_ his two other 'brothers' right now? Is this a game he wasn't warned about? It would hardly be the first time that he'd been unaware of a game until the first blow was struck; none of them are big on sharing information, and there is an undeniable advantage to surprising your opponents. But he'd thought, by now, he knew most of the games that they play amongst themselves. He hasn't seen any recent warning signs, and this is not how any of the ones he knows about start.

Grayson leads him to a door he doesn't immediately recognize, and opens it without even a moment of pause. He's tugged in behind, and for a moment all he can see is Grayson's shoulders and back, obscuring the rest of the room, before their eldest steps aside.

Motion is the first thing his eye catches on. Drake and Todd, the latter pushed back against the curve of one of the four-poster bed's ornate posts, the former with one hand pushed up beneath Todd's simple black tank top. Close, too close for this to be anything but the one game he's never been allowed to be part of. Not that he's allowed himself to feel any sort of intense desire to be part of it, but then again, it _has_ always been tempting to be a part of leaving marks on Todd's skin, the way he knows that Grayson and Drake do. He's seen enough of those that he can distinguish between the ones left by his two brothers.

Grayson's are possessive; hard bites, ragged scratches, and the sweeping darkness of deliberate bruises. Drake's are more precise; slices made by knives, and careful bruises that sink deep into the muscles beneath them. He's not as big a fan of getting his own hands dirty as Grayson is.

His arm is released, and the door is shut behind him. Todd's gaze is already fixed on him, eyes dark and slightly lidded, and the next moment Drake turns, hand still lingering on Todd's stomach but narrowed blue eyes focusing on him as well. He stands still beneath their scrutiny, until Grayson slides fingers down his arm and takes his wrist, pulling him forward and towards them. He almost expects to just be shoved into the center of them, but instead Grayson draws to a stop a few feet away and swings him around until he's facing their eldest, Drake and Todd at his back. Dangerous, but no more dangerous than it would be to have Grayson at his back instead.

He tilts his head up the half an inch necessary to look Grayson in the eye, now that they're almost the same height. (He'll grow taller before long; he's sure of it.) He's not fooling any of their family, but it just won't do to show wariness in front of Grayson; things like that just invite more of whatever behavior the wariness was caused by. Grayson, like all predators, has an unerring eye for weakness.

"You know what we do, Damian." It's not a question, but he nods regardless. Grayson's hand slides up his arm, light enough to raise goosebumps in the wake of his fingertips. "Would you like to join us?"

He instantly knows the answer, but he makes a show of pausing anyway, considering. Best not to show eagerness either. "Yes," he allows, after that moment. He very purposefully doesn't let himself react when Todd snickers, and keeps his attention focused on Grayson instead.

The smile he gets for his answer is not one of Grayson's more dangerous ones, but he doesn't let that relax him. The hand traveling up his arm reaches his shoulder, slides up his neck, and then cups his jaw and angles it up. Grayson leans in, and he stays very still as their eldest brushes lips over his own, tilting his head to a better angle and then deepening it a touch. A small gasp — he is not _entirely_ inexperienced but he has hardly gone farther than a few awkward gropes with others of his age — allows Grayson access to his mouth, and the tongue that slides in between his teeth is wicked. It's far above every other kiss he's ever had.

Grayson shifts back, giving him a fraction of space as he hums, low and pleased. He almost shifts forward again, almost gives in to the silent desire for more, _another_. But then there's a _sharp_ sting against his right cheek, and he hisses and jerks back a step, automatically raising a hand to touch the source of injury.

There's blood on his fingertips when he looks at them, and he catalogs the small blade in Grayson's hand, the predatory smile, before he hisses, " _Grayson_ …”

He is _not_ Todd; he does not enjoy being hurt without purpose.

Grayson's smile curls a little more, blade being flicked shut before the hand still on the other side of his jaw sweeps a thumb across his undamaged skin. "It's tradition, little prince. First blood wins the right to top."

He realizes what that means a fraction too slow. He takes in a sharp breath, whips around to face Drake and Todd, and meets a small knife that slices open the outside of his shoulder. Drake. He brushes past the loss — too late to reverse it now — and manages to face Todd before he's fully finished sliding out from behind Drake. Todd has a wicked grin curling his mouth, looks bluntly vicious in a way that the rest of them never do, and he bares his teeth in response. He will _not_ lose to all three of them, not even in an ambush.

The sudden blow to the side of his head comes out of nowhere, and the force knocks him to his knees, his world tilting dizzyingly to one side as he registers that the blow must have come from Grayson. A hand grabs his hair, wrenches him up and around and _slams_ his ribs into the side of the bed. It knocks the air from his lungs, and before he can recover, before he can do more than throw one wild leg out in defense, a large hand — Todd’s — is pushing his turtleneck up his back. He twists, throws an elbow back that hits nothing but air, and then hisses when nails dig into his side and rake down almost all the way to his hip.

He's let go and he immediately flips over, pressing his back to the bed and an elbow down against his side to protect it. Not that it's going to help now. Todd is standing just out of range of his legs, fingertips bloody and looking all too pleased with himself. Grayson slides over, taking Todd's wrist in one long-fingered grip and raising it. Todd has _no_ chance when Grayson licks at his bloody fingertips, then slowly sucks each finger into his mouth individually. Todd shivers, stares, and very carefully doesn't move.

They all have the same instincts when it comes to playing with Grayson.

Grayson spares a smile for Todd, a satisfied one that says he's done well, before letting go of his wrist. Then Grayson is stepping forward to him, paying no attention to how he's coiled to fight and merely reaching down to curl fingers — he debates pulling away for just a _second_ — around his throat and pull him to his feet. He obeys for the sake of his own survival, and Grayson pushes him back against the same wood post that Todd was against, lightly pinning him in place.

"Maybe next time," Grayson soothes, the fingers of his other hand brushing over his cheek. "You're still going to play with us, aren't you, Dami?"

As if he truly has the choice of backing out at this point.

"I am not afraid of any of you," he answers, mostly truthfully. He is not concerned they will kill him, and he is not afraid that Grayson will push further than he is capable of taking. Grayson only truly _breaks_ what he doesn't consider to be his. That will have to be enough.

Another smile, and then there's a thigh pushing between his and Grayson's lightly squeezing his throat, taking his mouth in another one of those all too perfect kisses. He reaches out, curling his fingers into the fabric of Grayson's shirt at either side of his waist, and suddenly Grayson is shifting back, free hand circling his waist. The kiss doesn't break, but Grayson pulls him forward, sliding him up the hard muscle of the thigh between his own. Then there's a body behind his own, pushing into the new space between him and the post. Big enough to make even him and Grayson look a bit small; Todd. He stiffens a little bit, and Todd chuckles and promptly bites at his neck, at the fraction of skin exposed between his hair and his turtleneck.

He grunts, scowling, before Grayson's hand squeezes his throat again.

Todd's hands are direct, gripping his hips for just a moment and then sliding around to flick the button through on the pair of loose jeans he's wearing. He'd protest, snap at Todd, except that his mouth is still taken up by Grayson and really, protesting isn't going to do anything. Unfair as it was, Todd's won a certain right to do what he wants. To a point. Besides, he is not fully willing to blow what may end up being his only chance to protest — he firmly believes that Grayson will gag him if he complains — on the simple act of having his jeans taken off. Todd is not _that_ repulsive.

Grayson finally pulls away from his mouth at the same time as Todd pushes his jeans down. He pants, trying to catch his breath in the brief reprieve, though the hand on his throat makes that a little difficult. Especially when it squeezes tight, and his breath catches anew at the pressure. Grayson has the predatory look back in his eyes, and he does his best to meet it and give any impression but that he is weak enough to be prey.

They must have discussed this beforehand, because the moment that Grayson lets go of him Todd is lifting him with a hand under one of his thighs and the other looping hard around his chest, swinging him around the pole as he gasps and then all but tossing him onto the bed. There's a moment, before Todd lets go, that he realizes what Todd's mass and strength means in a setting like this. The next moment, as he hits the bed and rolls to his back, he thinks — briefly, _vividly_ — of what it must look like when Todd simply lifts Drake. _Manhandles_ him. The difference in _size_ is…

Grayson slips onto the bed, following him and shoving him flat again when he tries to rise with a hand on the center of his chest. Todd is at the foot of the bed, but leans in to pull his jeans off of his feet, giving him a sharp grin when he's caught looking. The next moment Grayson's fingers are sliding beneath the edge of his briefs, sliding them down his legs, where Todd pulls them off too. He flushes despite his best efforts not too, and Grayson croons something that would be soothing if it didn't come through a smirk.

The hand on his chest eases, before Grayson murmurs, "On your knees, little prince."

It's soft but still undoubtedly a command, and he holds Grayson's gaze for a moment before he obeys. He rolls over, rising to his knees and bracing his elbows against the bed, twisting his head to look up at Grayson. Gentle fingers card through his hair, with only the faintest scrape of nails, and then Grayson is reaching down, pulling his turtleneck up his back. He starts when there are suddenly hands on the inside of his thighs, shoving them apart a few more inches. Too small to be Todd, so—

"Not bad," Drake mocks, fingers sliding up, hands going in different directions. One grazes nails along the base of his cock — his breath catches hard in his throat at the almost-threat — and the other circles his hole, teasing at the sensitive skin until he clenches down, twisting his hips forward and away from Drake's fingertips.

He almost turns his head to make some kind of scathing comment, before Grayson is dragging the turtleneck over his head. He squeezes his eyes shut as the fabric pulls and then slides off, Drake momentarily pushed to a place of secondary importance. Then there's odd pressure against his arms, the fabric pulling in an unfamiliar way, and he opens his eyes again to see what's happening.

Grayson is _twisting_ the turtleneck, wrapping it tight where it's still on his lower arms, but before he can do anything with that information he's getting yanked forward by it. He grunts, loses his balance for a moment and crashes down flat, before he manages to recover and push himself back up to his knees, to pull against the turtleneck and get it _off_ him. All of which is foiled when he looks up and Grayson is settling into a comfortable kneel on top of it, knees brushing against his arms and thoroughly pinning all of the excess of the turtleneck so his arms are pinned within it and down against the bed.

It is not _surprising_ , exactly, but it is not precisely welcome either. Being vulnerable before his family is a dangerous thing.

Grayson reaches forward, tracing fingers along his cheek and the line of the cut he left behind. "It's alright, little prince, I'm just making sure you don't writhe too much."

The hand slips back, tangles in his hair and then drags him forward until his head is pulled up, his arms pulling against the trapped turtleneck. He sucks in a breath when Grayson's other hand slips down, pushing the casual sweatpants far enough off those hips that his cock springs free. Semi-hard, nothing he hasn't glimpsed before but it's barely a foot in front of him, so _different_ from such close proximity. Grayson shifts up to a higher kneel, which puts him at _just_ the right height for that cock to be even with his face, and tightens the fingers in his hair.

"I'm going to teach you how to use your mouth," Grayson promises, with a smile and a light tug to his hair. "Spread your legs, Damian. Jason's going to open you right up for us; he's got talented fingers."

A hand — smaller — slides up his spine and then to the side, to trace the length of the scratches Todd left on his side. "He's got an even better tongue," Drake says, smearing blood down across his hip.

"Damn right I do," Todd chimes in, and from behind him there's a sound he can't place for a moment, a sound like flesh on flesh but with a wet tinge to it. It isn't until Todd gives a muffled groan, laughs, and then more clearly comments, "Save the biting for the brat, Timmy," that he matches the sound up to what must have been a kiss. And a bite, apparently.

Hands push his thighs apart, spreading his knees out until what's clearly Todd's body can fit between them. The hands slide up, parting his cheeks, and he fights the urge to close his legs again. He can take anything that his 'siblings' can dish out, no matter how painful or borderline humiliating. He swallows, looks up to meet the intense focus of Grayson's gaze, and then feels something bizarrely wet and distinctly flexible in a way fingers usually _aren't_ swipe up and over his hole.

He inhales sharply and jerks, the question of what it _is_ sticking in his throat. It returns, tracing the edge of his rim which he finds is surprisingly and intensely _sensitive_ , and it occurs to him in a sudden flash that the feeling is Todd's _tongue_. He can't help the small moan that fights its way from his throat, and he feels the hot rush of air as Todd chuckles, fingers squeezing his cheeks and parting them a little more. He feels open, exposed, and he wants to lower his head and hide it against an arm but Grayson's grip won't let him. The sensation is like nothing he has ever even imagined before; he's slipped his own fingers down there a few times, but the slick feeling of lube doesn't even start to compare. Todd seems to know _exactly_ what the most sensitive bits of him are too, and precisely how to make them _scream_ pleasure at him.

"Told you," Drake says, smug now instead of mocking, fingers sliding up his back again.

He shakes a bit, arches his back partially to push back against Todd and partially to pull away from Drake's hand. "What part — _ah!_ — do you intend on playing, _Drake?_ "

Fabric presses against his side, the shape of Drake leaning over him, before there's the heat of breath between his shoulder blades and a deceptively strong hand stroking around his back and to the other side of his waist. "I'm going to wait my turn," Drake tells him, hair brushing his skin, "and play with what I get in the meantime. Your shoulders…” He feels the metal of a blade press flat against his side, and gasps in a shallow breath. "To your waist."

He fights to stay still as that blade turns, scraping the sharp edge against his skin before returning to safer angles. He succeeds well enough that he isn't cut. Yet.

Grayson pulls at his hair, capturing his attention again, and he looks back up. "Shhh…” Grayson soothes as if his wariness is plain to see, free hand tracing fingertips against his lips. "You'll enjoy it, little prince."

Two fingers slip past his lips, hooking against his bottom row of teeth and pulling his mouth open. When they slip back out, he leaves his mouth open. The smile he gets is pleased. Grayson wraps that hand around his own cock — fuller now, closer towards truly hard — and guides it forward, resting it on his bottom lip. He swallows, waits for the push inside his mouth, down his throat, but it doesn't immediately come. Not until Todd's tongue pulls another moan from him, and Drake eases off of his back, keeping only fingertips and the blade against him.

Then Grayson shifts forward and he opens his mouth wider to take it, feeling the slide of it along his tongue and then against the roof of his mouth. Slow, pushing until it brushes the back of his throat and the muscles there automatically convulse in a faint gag. He's closed his eyes, so he can't see Grayson's expression, but he does hear the pleased little hum of sound, and feel the fingers that brush his cheek and then comb back across his scalp.

"It's alright," Grayson murmurs, "we'll train that out of you." Another stroke across his scalp, then the fingers of that second hand tighten to grip his hair just like the other one, and Grayson commands, "Breathe through your nose, watch your teeth, and remember that you have a _tongue_ , little prince."

Grayson holds him still by his hair, pulls mostly out of his mouth, and then slides smoothly back in. There's that same brush against the back of his throat, and his throat clenches again, but he ignores it as best he can. He's suffered much worse feelings, and Grayson is— Grayson is _in his mouth_ and that is a forbidden fantasy come true. There's a faint saltiness on his tongue, but it is not nearly as bad as he feared it might be, and nothing altogether unpleasant.

Todd is working more deliberately at his hole now, pressing slightly inwards every couple of seconds as if that tongue is actually going to push inside of him, and though he doesn't believe it the idea is tantalizing. He settles into the feeling of it, letting Grayson use his mouth as is desired and letting his hips rock slightly back against Todd's tongue, all other input deemed secondary relative to those two. Until, suddenly, there's a sharp _slice_ of pain just above his hip.

He chokes, jerking away from it, but both Grayson and Todd are unrelenting. In fact, one of Todd's hands releases his cheek and loops, heavy and inescapable, around his thighs to hold him in place. He slowly gets control of his throat again, manages to fight back the urge to choke until he can breathe normally, can relax as best he can with the reinforced knowledge that Drake is still at his side. That Drake has a _knife_ and a sadistically manipulative streak a mile wide. He is not normally at its mercy like this.

Pressure at his hole, and then Todd's tongue is _actually inside him_ and he gives a startled moan around Grayson at the sensation of it, the—

 _Slice_ of another cut, higher on his ribs this time.

He flinches at the cut but pushes back against Todd, curling his fingers into the sheets of the bed and trying to sort out the two conflicting sensations. Pleasure, from Todd, with the slide of that tongue inside him against sensitive nerves, and _pain_ from Drake, at the end of whatever blade he's holding. He can feel the metal sliding across his back, the fingers of Drake's other hand tracing the length of the cuts already laying his skin open. He shivers, grounding himself in the steady slide of Grayson over his tongue, that now-predictable clench of his throat as the head brushes farther than is comfortable. Deliberate; Grayson wants to remove his gag reflex through practice.

This is Grayson at his safest, strangely enough. Teaching, coaxing him through the beginnings of learning how to do something, when he can only take small amounts of it at a time. Grayson never pushes past what he can take; this is apparently no exception. There will be no allowance for his own failures, like how Drake made him choke, but there won't be any punishment for it either, not as long as he proves willing to learn. To devote himself as Grayson deserves.

It only takes him three more cuts — all shallow; tolerable — to realize that Drake is timing them to go along with the moments that Todd pries some muffled noise out of him. Drake is _training_ him to expect pain with his pleasure, and that realization makes him want to turn on his predecessor, to _snarl_ and demand that it end. He is not some civilian, or some _toy_ that can be conditioned without realizing what is happening. Unfortunately, with his mouth occupied and arms pinned down, he has very little ability to protest. He manages to make a muffled, displeased sound around Grayson, but it doesn't slow the eldest of them down at all.

Drake laughs, fingernails digging a little more cruelly into one of his cuts, until he releases a low groan. "Figured it out, Damian? Little slow tonight, hm?"

Todd pulls back, and he shivers at the unfamiliar feeling of being wet, and _open_. "What are you up to now, baby bird?" Todd asks, voice low and hungry. The arm around his thigh slips away, and he hears a snap that sounds like plastic, though he can’t identify precisely what it is.

"Just a little bit of conditioning," Drake answers easily. "We could use another masochist, don't you think? I don't think even you have the stamina to satisfy the sadism of three different people, Jason. Not regularly, anyway."

"Pretty sure you can't _make_ a masochist, Timmy," Todd comments, and then there are slick fingers teasing the outside of his hole. One pushes in, and he hates that he expects the sharp flare of pain beneath his shoulder blade that accompanies it. Hates even more that he doesn't pull away from the knife, only pushes back to get more of the fingers.

"Probably not," Drake agrees. "He'd have to already have one hiding in there under all that pride. But I _can_ train his body to accept and expect pain whenever he's given pleasure. With some time, he should feel pleasure when he's hurt, regardless of whether he's actually being given any." The blade traces its way down his spine, and he shivers at the light scratch and sting of it. "The mind is a deliciously easy thing to manipulate."

Todd groans as if he's taking pleasure directly from the words, and then there's a shift of weight on the bed behind him, and a murmured, "God, I fucking _adore_ how your head works, baby bird."

Drake's clothing brushes his hip, and then there's an equally murmured, "Then get back to your work so I can get back to mine."

Todd laughs, but the finger inside of him does push a little more steadily, and he feels Todd's weight settle between his legs again. The finger rocks, and then there is a _tongue_ sliding in above it and he jerks, moaning as they move in sync. Drake's knife slices a curved line at one side of the small of his back, in time with the new shock of pleasure. He makes another displeased sound at that, but there's nothing he can do about it and he grudgingly accepts that. Better to enjoy what pleasure he can, rather than fight what he can't change. He will just have to hope that Drake's conditioning does not take any hold in a single night.

If it does, he will simply have to avoid Drake until he figures out how to remove it from his system. Simple enough, if aggravating. It is not as if Drake would actually try to force him. There are lines in their family, however blurry.

He eases as best he can, trying not to flinch at the sharp little bursts of pain, or how they twist together so well with the pleasure of Todd's tongue and fingers. He is only moderately successful, but he allows himself to stop thinking about Drake's blade as conditioning so he can view it as simple sadism instead, and that helps. Drake enjoys causing pain; he is vulnerable. There's no need for a reason beyond that, not as far as he is concerned. (Drake would need a reason, but Drake never does _anything_ without a 'reason.')

"That's good," Grayson praises, one hand loosening to stroke over his scalp, then down to lightly squeeze the back of his neck. "You're doing very well, Dami. Relax; we'll take care of you."

He'd point out that Grayson's definition of 'taking care' of people usually involves slit throats or extended torture, but that would be rather against the spirit of things. Also, it's pleasant to hear Grayson praise him. While the same words from Todd or Drake would feel mocking, Grayson's praise is worth paying attention to. Not that he's foolish enough to believe that it isn't being given solely because he's done what the eldest of them wanted. He is intelligent enough to know that while Grayson's conditioning may be more subtle than Drake's, it is still undoubtedly there.

As far as he knows, Todd is the only one out of all of them that doesn't condition the people around him to some extent.

Todd's tongue withdraws from him, and he gives a muffled noise of protestation before it's replaced with the press of a second finger instead. He feels only the tiniest hints of a stretch, and even as Drake draws another line of blood at the top of his spine, he wonders if it's deliberate that there is barely even a trace of discomfort; Todd would have to be very slow and thorough to achieve that. His own explorations have always come accompanied with the feeling of being stretched, though granted that is a feeling that is not altogether unpleasant. Is Todd always this thorough, or is he being given special treatment?

Difficult to say; he doesn't know enough about the three of them in this sense. He's never cared enough to see if he could find precisely what sort of power dynamics existed between his brothers when it came to their sexual encounters. Perhaps that was a miscalculation.

A flash of pain along the center of his back, but no pleasure to soften it, and he jerks and chokes for another moment in surprise.

"Get out of your head, Damian," Drake demands, blade leaving a stinging line along his skin as it's traced in seemingly random, weaving patterns across his back. "You've got a real world to focus on, remember?"

"You like people when they're drifting," Grayson says above him, voice just slightly breathless and his skin goes _tight_ at the proof that he's actually affected.

Drake hums something like agreement, letting the blade turn so it's just the flat trailing over his skin instead of the tip. "When he's high I'll appreciate it; when he's lost in his own thoughts, I'll bring him back. You taught me how, remember, Dick?"

" _I_ remember," Jason says, voice gone hungry again. "Pretty sure the last time I bled so much in one night was when I _died_." The knife leaves his skin, and then Jason is hissing, giving a strangled, almost intelligible swear. There's a moment, and then Jason all but growls, "Don't _tease_ , baby bird. You've already got a canvas tonight; you work me up I'm either demanding that knife or fucking you hard enough to make you scream."

"Not tonight," Grayson intercedes, tone almost like a laugh. "Don't distract him, Tim; Jason has work to do."

Another hum from Drake. "He could work faster," is the drawled comment.

"Hey, brat's a virgin, alright? You want him to take all three of us, he's gotta be pretty open to start with. Takes time." Drake makes an unconvinced sound, and Todd gives a warning snarl that makes him shiver a bit. "I'm not rushing this; he's gonna be sore enough tomorrow even with the prep. You want him in that kinda pain, you leave me out of it."

“That’s enough, boys,” Grayson says, sharper this time. “Behave.”

Todd snorts, but neither of them say anything more.

Grayson’s fingers pet through his hair, soothing more than demanding his attention, and he allows himself to sink somewhat into that, to ignore all hints of danger from the two siblings at his back. Grayson would not allow Todd or Drake to harm him seriously, at least not while he is pinned like this. He does not have to worry about the possibility of getting caught in the middle of a potential battle between them.

Todd’s tongue reintroduces itself, sliding wet and slick between the two fingers, and not even the accompaniment of Drake’s knife can stop him from moaning. Grayson laughs above him, sounding just slightly delighted, and tugs a little bit at his hair with the hand not holding him in place. Then Grayson pushes a little farther into his mouth, brushes more noticeably against the back of his throat, and he finds himself swallowing on automatic simply so he doesn’t choke.

It's easier to manage now that he understands the sensation. It's not yet familiar, and it's certainly not entirely comfortable, but he is _pleasing_ Grayson and that is enough to make up for the slowly growing ache in his jaw and neck. It's nothing he can't handle, and he can prove that. He's had to prove himself every step of his life, so he's hardly going to fail _now_. He _refuses_ to.

If Drake and Todd were pleasing enough to be kept when Grayson took them the first time, then he should be able to impress as well. He has not considered himself _better_ than either of them for some time, at least not in terms of pure skill, but he is close enough to equal for the difference not to matter. He will not fail; he will take _anything_ Grayson demands. Even if that places him at their mercy.

Todd adds a third finger, and he rocks back against it, anticipates the sting across his back and shifts slightly away from it, arching his back down. A mistake, in hindsight, because it makes the rest of his cuts pull and sting anew, and he has to curl his fingers into the sheets not to jerk too badly at the pain. Drake's hand slips underneath his chest, pressing upwards to force him to straighten his back again. He resists for a moment, to attempt to reinforce that he is not just Drake's plaything, and then allows himself to be moved. It is hardly any more painful than arching was, and all of it is offset by Todd's fingers.

He finds himself agreeing with Grayson's assessment. Todd, despite his tendency to be a blunt instrument instead of actually using his skill, _does_ have very talented fingers.

Todd finally grips his thigh for a moment, fingers slowing to a gentle rock of motion, and says, "Alright, he's ready."

Drake's knife slips away from him, metal leaving one last stinging cut along his ribs as it goes. He can feel the bed shift beneath him as Drake moves, and is fairly certain that Drake shifts down to sit or kneel near Todd, if he's reading the distribution of weight correctly. Todd doesn't move, apart from that slow roll of fingers inside of him, but Grayson slows as well. The fingers in his hair loosen, before Grayson is tugging him back and pulling away in the same moment.

He works his jaw as Grayson slips from his mouth, leaving his eyes closed for a few moments as he tries to steady his breathing. The taste lingers on his tongue, but it is still not as unpleasant as he'd considered it might be. In fact, apart from the ache of his jaw being stretched wide and held apart, and the slight soreness in his throat from his repeated, restrained gags, it was an altogether pleasant experience.

Although…

He opens his eyes, and is confronted with the fact that Grayson, while now undeniably hard, does not look as though he was actually close to any sort of release. Surely, Grayson found _some_ pleasure in him, right?

Grayson strokes his scalp, letting go of his hair but only to slide that hand down and grip his jaw instead. Grayson is smiling, focus centered purely on him, and he can't help but relax beneath it. A thumb swipes over his bottom lip, and then Grayson comments, "You should see the way your mouth looks, little prince. We'll have to do this in front of a mirror next time."

"I think that's a _lovely_ idea," Drake comments, with a wicked edge to his voice. "We could have one as a full wall. Maximum efficiency, you know."

"Voyeur," Todd mocks, and then there's another sharp hiss, and the fingers within him slip out faster than is particularly comfortable. He inhales sharply, as Todd snaps, "Little fucking _bastard_."

He jerks when there's the clear sound of bodies colliding, tries to turn and look, but Grayson's fingers tighten and keep him looking up. "Easy," Grayson murmurs, underneath the sound of Todd's grunts and Drake's hisses, and the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping. "This is your first time, isn't it, Dami?" He can't speak with the way Grayson's fingers are holding him, so he does his best to nod instead. Grayson's smile widens.

He's let go, and then Grayson is easing off of the turtleneck pinning his arms, slipping around him with fluid grace and trailing a hand along his side as he goes, as if making sure he can track the moment. He swallows, and it takes a moment for him to gather enough to push his hands together and get the binding fabric off of him. It feels almost strange to be free and able to move again.

Todd yelps, and now that he is free to look he does so, down at where Todd has Drake on his back, a hand around his throat. Yet it is Drake that is smirking, and Todd's arms that are bleeding from several clearly fresh cuts, blood vivid against his paler skin. As he watches, Todd releases his grip, pulling back despite the wild tinge to his expression. It's only then that he can see the way that Drake's blade is pressed to Todd's navel, at the gap between the bottom of the tank top and the top of the equally black sweatpants.

Then Grayson's hands are on his hips, pulling him up higher on his knees and drawing his attention again. Thumbs rub firm circles in against the bone, and Grayson asks, "Ready for the main event, little prince?"

He shivers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! (It's Dick's turn!) Enjoy!
> 
> (Also, I'm going to repeat this a couple times leading up to it, but Sheith week is nearly upon us. Prepare for a week's worth of it; I've got stories for all seven days.)

_"Ready for the main event, little prince?"_

Grayson doesn't wait for an answer from him. One of the hands gripping his hips lets go, and then there's blunt, slick pressure at the outside of him and he knows what it _must_ be. He lowers his head, takes in a shallow breath and tries not to betray how simultaneously eager and nervous he is about the actual act. Neither emotion is something he can betray to Grayson, not without it being taken advantage of. Grayson croons something _almost_ soothing, singular thumb still rubbing circles into his hip, and then the pressure increases.

He expects more resistance, almost expects actual pain or at least some level of discomfort, but instead it's _smooth_. Grayson slides inside of him, and he arches his back, weathers the pain of the cuts in his skin pulling as he gasps. There is pressure, and a sense of _fullness_ that Todd's fingers did not achieve, but there's no other sensation but the pleasure as the sensitive nerves are stimulated with the long, slow slide and stretch of them. Then, suddenly, Grayson's hips are settling against him, and he realizes with a churning _swoop_ of his gut that their eldest is fully buried in him. He— He _feels_ …

Fingers tangle in his hair, and he gives a soft cry as they pull, forcing him to arch his back and his neck, his gaze lifting towards the ceiling but not truly seeing it. Grayson rocks slightly and he feels himself automatically clench at the sensation before he's gasping for another breath of air at how it _magnifies_ the feeling of being full. His eyes flicker shut, fingers curling into the sheets to try and ground himself, to try and gain some fraction of control back from how expertly in hand Grayson has him.

Grayson's hand releases his hip, sliding up the slope of his back, tracing the edges of Drake's cuts and painting trails of blood over his skin as they move, all the way up to curl over his shoulder. "That's excellent work, Jason," Grayson compliments, and he twitches, forcing his eyes back open so he can try to turn his head a bit, to look. The hand in his hair allows him to, at least enough for him to catch the edge of Todd's smirk.

"Talented fingers," Todd says. "See, Timmy? Worth the wait to get him all stretched open first."

The next moment Drake is lashing out, twisting and grabbing a handful of Todd's hair to _slam_ him down against the bed. He goes tense for a second, loses it at the _feeling_ it creates, and hears Grayson laugh behind him as Drake gets Todd on his back, straddling his hips with a hand on his throat and that wicked knife tracing up Todd's stomach, dragging the shirt with it. Todd looks anticipatory rather than wary though, and despite the threat of the knife and Drake's grip, his hands come up to grip Drake's thighs.

Drake's lips curl into a smirk, fingers tightening very precisely against Todd's throat until he audibly chokes, mouth opening in a bid for air. "What should I do to you…?" Drake murmurs, grip unyielding even as Todd twitches, throat arching, fingers digging into his thighs.

Then he sees the expression on Todd's face, and understands. Discomfort, yes, and strain, but there is an undeniable note of pleasure to Todd's face as well, something dark and welcoming. Instantly, _he_ wants to be the one to put that expression there. Or, perhaps, to be the one to have it.

Drake's fingers ease and Todd inhales, strain melting away to something like bliss for just a moment. There's a _sharp_ pang of desire in his gut, and a moan escapes his throat without his consent. Todd's gaze flicks to him, and those parted lips curve in a small grin.

"See something you like, Damian?"

Grayson hums, sounding delighted and on the verge of laughter. "I think everyone can appreciate you, Little Wing." The hand slips off his shoulder, and he watches Tim turn to meet the fingers that slide over his cheek, smearing blood over it. "Tim, sweetheart, why don't you put Jason's mouth to work? He can take our boy second, and then you'll be third. Jason, you can hold long enough to get our prince hard again, right?"

Todd's grin gets a little larger. "Course I can." Todd's gaze rises to Drake, and the hands on his thighs slip around to grip Drake's ass instead, to pull him forward a bit. Drake's smirk is still holding. "C'mere," Todd says, voice low and coaxing, "let me get you off, Timmy."

He should be saying something, he should be putting in some opinion on things, but words have abandoned him. He can only stare through lidded eyes as Drake pulls away and quickly, efficiently, strips the clothing off himself. Then he returns, shifting up and… and straddling Todd's _face_. Confusion takes him for a moment — he thought that Drake was intending on taking Todd's mouth, and that position seems very awkward for it — before Todd's hands rise to grip Drake's ass, to pull it down, and the angle he has allows him to see the pink flicker of what cannot be anything but Todd's tongue. His breath catches as Drake arches slightly, one hand curled in Todd's hair and the other braced on the bed itself.

It is… degrading, _humiliating_ if he had to choose a word to describe the act, and yet in the next moment Todd gives a clearly aroused moan, fingers squeezing into the muscle of Drake's ass, spreading the cheeks wider.

"We're going to teach you a lot of new things, little prince," Grayson says to him, as he watches color flush into Drake's face, watches the delicate part of his lips in a small gasp. "Watch them as much as you can manage."

With that, Grayson shifts backwards, hand returning to his hip to curl around it and keep him in place. Most of the way out as he arches, eyes flickering again at the slide, before _shoving_ forward. He gives a surprised exhale of breath, and then there _is_ no rest. Grayson is steady, as unrelenting as he was when his mouth was being taken instead but faster now, less exacting. He twists beneath Grayson as much as he can, caught between the hand on his hip and the one in his hair that's still holding him up and arched, and can only manage to take it. Whenever he opens his eyes he's met with flashes of pale skin, with the sight of Drake in pleasure, and the sounds in his ears are not his alone. Drake's are quieter, but they are present, and Todd releases the occasional moan, or low growl.

But he cannot _hope_ to hold back his noises. He gasps, cries out, _shouts_ and then _keens_ as Grayson angles downwards and suddenly there is the hard, repeated impact of thrusts against his prostate. He misses precisely when it is that Drake and Todd move, but when his eyes next flicker open Drake is on his back with Todd between his thighs, hands buried in his hair and hips rocking up into his mouth. He manages to stares at that for a minute before Grayson distracts him again, and he loses all ability to even try and focus.

He shakes, and Grayson lets go of his hip, sliding fingers down and then _around him_. He sobs out a breath, can't even _think_ to warn Grayson because suddenly he's coming, pleasure _scorching_ through him and eviscerating him from the inside out. He realizes he's keening only when his senses start to return, and at the same time he registers that Grayson is moving slower now. Rocking, shallow movements that are easier on his nerves. Before he can give some sign of the fact that he's aware, Grayson's grip in his hair guides him down, pushing him out of the arch until his head is pinned against the sheets.

Fingers press to his lips, and he opens his mouth on instinct to allow them to slip inside. The taste surprises him, but a moment later he's shivering, whining when he realizes that Grayson's fingers have bits of his own cum on them. He closes his mouth around them, sucking without thinking about it, his mind still riding high on the pleasure humming through him.

"What a good boy," Grayson says, with a bit of strain to his voice. The praise makes him shiver again, as it always does whenever Grayson means a compliment enough to actually say it aloud. "Damian, you'd do anything to please me, wouldn't you?"

He's conscious enough to know that is a _dangerous_ question, no matter what answer he dares to give, but also that there is only one answer that is truth.

" _Yes_ ," he gasps, when the fingers slip from his mouth. “Anything.”

He cannot pretend anything else. Grayson is their eldest, their leader, dangerous and deadly, and he is _loyal_ to the original Talon down to his bones. He would do whatever Grayson asked of him, and he does not care how that makes him look to the rest of the world, or even to the others of their family. Grayson may as well be his god, for he has never believed in anyone else as thoroughly as he does the man above him. He would _gladly_ show his devotion, in whatever way was demanded.

" _Good_ ," Grayson praises, fingers stroking through his hair, scratching just hard enough at his scalp to make him _whine_. "Tim, come here." There is movement, and he should open his eyes but Grayson's still rocking inside of him, still stroking his hair, and he can't find it in him to try. "Damian; little prince." The fingers tug lightly at his hair. "I'm going to finish taking you, and I want you to suck Tim off while I do, alright?"

He _does_ open his eyes for that, and finds Tim in front of him, kneeling with his legs spread. His breath catches at the sight of Tim's cock, flushed and already glistening with moisture, and he gives a protesting sound that's immediately hushed.

"You want to _please me_ , don't you, Dami?" Grayson coaxes, tugging his head up by his hair. "I _want_ this. I want you to take Tim between those pretty lips, get him off, and swallow everything he gives you, little prince. It won't take much; Jason's done all the work for you."

"Why?" he asks, and refuses to admit that it's a whine. He does not _want_ Drake like he does Grayson. Drake is irritating. Pretty, but he would rather be pinning Drake down and making him _scream_ than allowing himself to be used by his sadist of a brother.

Grayson gives a small laugh, letting go of his hair and tracing fingers down the length of his spine. "Because everything we have goes in you tonight, Damian. We're going to fill you up and wear you out, little prince, till you can't _breathe_ without feeling us." He feels a protest stick in his throat over the fact that plan still involves _Drake_ , and then Grayson is leaning down over him, pulling him up and pressing tight to his back until it _hurts_ in the kind of way that almost makes him want more. Grayson can always make him feel that way. "You've been such a _good boy_ so far." Grayson whispers in his ear, teeth just barely scraping at it. "You want to make me _happy_ , don't you?"

That is… That is _not fair_.

He whines, and it comes out broken when he agrees, " _Yes_."

Grayson kisses the side of his throat, then slowly pushes him back down, holding him by his hair until he's poised over Drake's cock. "That's it." Grayson lets go of his hair with one last tug, sliding fingers along the back of his neck and down his spine. " _Now_ , Dami."

He tries to ignore the fact that it's Drake. He enjoyed Grayson enough; why should this be different?

He almost misses the guiding touch of a hand in his hair, taking the responsibility of _choice_ from him. There is no choice, not really, but it would be more pleasant to believe that Drake was pushing him into this, rather than that he was doing it willingly, out of loyalty to Grayson. He supposes that is _why_ the hand is gone; Grayson is making a point just as much as he is demanding what he wishes to see.

Drake gives a small gasp at the first flick of his tongue, and despite his dislike of the situation he looks up. Drake is… cracked. Flushed, pupils blown wide, mouth parted in clear desire, and when he laps at the underside of the cock in front of him, experimentally, he gets a _hard_ shudder and a flicker of Drake's blue eyes. Hm. Perhaps there is a certain… _power_ to this. Perhaps it is not nearly as subservient as he was afraid of it being, and he will _not_ be at Drake's mercy. Not in this.

He keeps his gaze upwards as he carefully takes the head of Drake's cock into his mouth, over his tongue. The taste is no worse than Grayson, and Drake gives a soft moan at the touch. He… He would like to force Drake to make more of those noises.

There's a rough laugh from beside him, and he glances over, finds Todd shifting up and closer to him. He's momentarily distracted, as Grayson's fingers wrap around his hip again and the rocking thrusts gain more power, with less care for the fact he's still sensitive, but he refocuses when Todd moves behind Drake. Todd's hands slide down the outside of Drake's arms, then circle them and push them down, pinning them on either side of Drake's waist. He watches, curious, as Drake arches and hisses, and Todd smirks.

"You know," Todd comments, speaking over Drake's head, "if you brace with just one hand, that gives you a free one to play with. And if you take him deeper, he'll get _loud_ for you."

" _Jason_ ," Drake hisses, head twisting as if to bite their loose cannon. Todd's pressed too close though, and the only one of them still wearing clothing, which gives him a bit of a barrier from Drake's teeth.

Slowly, mindful of the power of Grayson's thrusts behind him, he gathers his arms until he can keep himself upright with just one. First, he raises his free hand and presses it to Drake's thigh, pushing it wider against the faint resistance. Grayson laughs from behind him, sounding pleased and breathless, and a flush of pleasure warms his stomach. He follows Todd's advice, sliding his mouth lower onto Drake and taking more of him. He can feel the faint tremble in the thigh beneath his hand, and Drake's hips rock upwards, the push of the cock towards the back of his throat now a more familiar sensation. He allows it, sliding his free hand inwards to explore the rest of Drake's groin.

He sucks at Drake as he lets his fingers slide over the tight, hot weight of his balls, and then lower, past the smooth skin below them and to the clench of muscle beneath. For a moment, he's surprised that it's slick, wet beneath his fingers, until he remembers just _where_ Todd's mouth has been. He circles it with one fingertip, remembering how that felt on _him_ , and Drake jerks against Todd's grip, arching and giving a hitched moan. He narrows his eyes, presses his finger inwards, and it _gives_. Drake is hot inside, clenched tight around him, and gives a broken-sounding moan that immediately lights _satisfaction_ to join the pleasure in his gut.

He can only imagine what it must be like to take someone like this, as Grayson is doing to him. If it is _anything_ like the sensation of Drake around his finger, he can see why Grayson is fucking him like he is. In fact, he's impressed that Grayson is being as relatively restrained as he is. He's absolutely certain that the strength being used on him is only a small portion of how hard Grayson _could_ be taking him. Despite the fact that Grayson is using him, it is not like he is truly being overstimulated, or _fucked_ in the manner that he's seen in the porn he's… studied. There's a consideration to it he did not expect.

Then again, if they truly _do_ intend to all fuck him, _repeatedly_ , it would be in their best interest not to harm him too badly.

Todd grins down at him, sharp and _vicious_. "You want to see him come apart, Damian?"

Drake _hisses_ louder this time, twisting against Todd and _snapping_ teeth close enough that they catch some of the black fabric between them. "I'll—” He sucks harder, and Drake cuts off with another moan before managing to gather himself. "I'm going to _shred_ you as soon as I'm free, Jason."

“Can’t wait, Timmy,” is Todd’s answer, the grin not even flickering. “Scratch the inside of his thighs, Damian. Lines, not blood, and do it _slowly_. He’ll buck, so watch it.”

Drake makes a sharp sound of denial, and Grayson laughs again. There’s a tightness to it that wasn’t there before, something coiling that he can only _imagine_ means Grayson must be close to a release. “That’s _generous_ of you, Little Wing.”

He slips his finger free as Todd looks up over his back, presumably at Grayson. “The two of you aren’t easy to handle; just giving the kid a few pointers to help him get through the night. I’m _nice_ that way.” Todd’s gaze falls to him again, hands sliding Drake’s captured wrists inwards, and slightly down, almost as if… as if pinning Drake’s hips down as well. “Go on,” Todd says, as Drake twists those wrists and curls his hands as if to claw at Todd’s fingers, though they’re just out of reach. “Make him break for you.”

He sets his nails against Drake’s inner thigh, and notes that although Drake is protesting, and ‘struggling,’ he has not actually been stopped. Drake’s thighs may not be the equal of _Todd’s,_ but his predecessor is more than capable of knocking him aside or hurting him with solely his legs, and there is little he could do to prevent it from this angle. Perhaps it is the same loyalty to Grayson that keeps him still, or perhaps Drake is not as against this interaction as he would like them to believe.

It feels like the right thing to do to open his mouth wider and take as much as he comfortably can of Drake in one fell swoop. Drake arches against Todd with a quiet cry, and he feels _vicious_ satisfaction in repaying Drake’s earlier manipulations by dragging his nails across the sensitive skin below them. Drake’s cry rises sharply in volume, and behind him he hears Grayson give a breathless moan in response. He can’t honestly say which one affects him more, but the combination of _both_ pulls a shudder from him, and makes him really put a bit of effort into, as Todd said, making Drake _come apart_.

It doesn't take much. He's not surprised; Grayson predicted as much. He only manages to claw one more set of lines down Drake's thigh, crossing over the first set, before Drake gives a cry that breaks into a keen, and bucks upwards into his mouth. Todd's pin neutralizes most of the movement, but it provides enough of a warning that he feels the way Drake pulses in his mouth, and is not totally unprepared for the semen that floods his mouth. He swallows on instinct, wanting to move away but remembering Grayson's desire and forcing himself to stay, to continue to take what he has coaxed from Drake. It is... not as difficult as he thought it might be, or as _uncomfortable_ as his studies of pornography made it appear.

The taste is unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant, and it is a little more volume than is entirely comfortable, which forces him to continue swallowing to rid his mouth of the excess, but it is hardly beyond his capabilities. There is also the benefit that he is _proud_ of the fact that he caused this. _He_ made it happen.

Drake lost control because of _him_.

Drake slumps back against Todd's chest and he takes it as a cue to stop, swallowing the last of the release in his mouth and then backing off. Drake's head lies against Todd's collarbone, cheeks flushed, mouth open, eyes closed. Todd's smirking, gaze lingering on Drake, hands still gripping his wrists, but with very little of the force from before. He lowers his hands to brace against the bed, to give himself more stability against Grayson's movements, as he watches Drake breathe.

Then Grayson is _jerking_ him back by the grip on his hips, and he gasps as he momentarily falls off balance and then gets _shoved_ forwards again by the hard snap of Grayson's hips against him. One hand grabs him by his hair, pulls him up into that same almost punishing arch, until Grayson's chest is pressed to his back, mouth and teeth against his throat. _Dangerous_ , but Grayson is never entirely safe. He learned that a very long time ago. Even now Grayson is capable of turning on him without warning, not that he believes that his throat will _actually_ be torn out, especially as he has done nothing to warrant it, but Grayson is still _capable_. He would be a suicidal fool to believe anything else.

"That's it, little prince," Grayson pants against his skin. "Take what we give you."

Nails dig into his skin, hips drive into him hard enough to make him give a soft cry, and Grayson _bites_. He jerks at the feeling of the teeth sinking into the side of his neck, at the _sting_ of skin breaking as Grayson gives a muffled moan into it. He tenses for a moment and that gets him another sound from Grayson; sharper this time, as if wrenched out of their eldest's chest. The teeth don't go any deeper, and somehow he finds himself relaxing, easing into Grayson's hold as he feels — _feels_ — a rush of wet heat inside of him. It's a bizarre sensation, but with Grayson pressed to his back, hands in his hair and at his hip, it feels _good_.

Grayson lets go of his throat first, then the hand in his hair presses him downwards, until his head is to the sheets, back sloped downwards since his hips are still held up. Grayson shifts, pulls back, and he gives a small groan as he feels Grayson slip from him. He feels… _empty_ , open, and it's strange. He doesn't like it.

"My turn," Todd says, voice a low rumble, and he tilts his head to look up.

Drake is stirring, but yields easily enough to being laid down on the pillows at the head of the bed as Todd moves away, both hands rising to strip off his shirt. He turns his head to look as Todd sheds the sweatpants as well, and immediately _flushes_ because Todd is unmistakably bigger than either of his other 'brothers.' Not to an _obscene_ level, not where he worries about actually being hurt by it, but Todd is still noticeably larger. He supposes that makes sense, proportionately. Todd can still dwarf any of them.

Grayson meets Todd, winds a hand around one side of his neck and bites — relatively lightly, it appears — at the other, and unbidden his mind returns to its earlier wondering about the sheer _size_ difference between Drake and Todd. His breath catches, and Grayson gives a lazy, satisfied laugh as those blue eyes look down at him from beneath Todd's jaw. Grayson's other hand is sliding around Todd's waist, their chests pressing together, and the gaze watching him is partially lidded, paired with a smirk that seems true enough to be mostly harmless.

"Go on, Little Wing," Grayson murmurs. "Show our prince a good time."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter 3! So, hope you enjoyed Sheith week; we've got one chapter in the middle here, and then JayRoy week starts on Thursday so that'll be the next thing. Oh, and NaNo starts tonight so like... I might go a little crazy over the month. Fair warning. Enjoy!

_"Go on, Little Wing," Grayson murmurs. "Show our prince a good time."_

He shivers as Todd traces a gentle hand down Grayson's side, head turning into his hair and eyes shutting for a moment as Grayson bites at his throat again. Still relatively light; enough to leave a mark but not to draw blood, not like the bite on the side of his neck that he knows must be beading blood at the points where Grayson's canines broke his skin. It still stings, but it's faded into the background like the mild ache of his jaw, and the much more present pain of Drake's 'playing.' He will not be able to lie on his back for at least a couple days. Not comfortably, anyway.

"You have to let me go first, Dick," Todd points out, voice amused, heavy with desire, but also soft. As if Todd could kneel where he is and let Grayson touch him all day without protest.

Perhaps he understands that feeling.

Grayson laughs and pulls away, leaving Todd free to shift forward, to get behind him and trace gentle hands over his hips. It's only at the lack of pain that he realizes that Todd is carefully avoiding the open cuts, and the slightly sore skin where Grayson gripped hard enough to bruise him. "Easy, Damian," Todd murmurs, hands petting down the sides of his thighs. "Dick, pass me one of the pillows, would you?"

Grayson obliges, and he twists his head back to look, confused, in time for Todd to slide the pillow in beneath him. Before he can question it, Todd is firmly pushing his hips down, getting his weight off of his knees until he's practically lying down. The pillow fits neatly in beneath his hips, elevating them, but the tension of holding himself up is gone, leaving the muscles of his back and thighs free to loosen, letting him _relax_. He curls his fingers into the sheets, feeling Todd's hands tracing gentle circles against his skin. Soft, but the sheer strangeness of that careful touch is sparking pleasure beneath his skin, contrasting how he aches and it feels… surprisingly good.

He feels one of Todd's legs slides between his own, before those gentle hands are sliding down, pressing on the inside of his thighs to push them open a little further. He takes in a sharp breath, feeling Todd's other leg rub against the outside of his. There's the click of some kind of bottle opening, closing again, and then one of Todd's hands is gripping his ass, pulling his cheek to the side and stretching him open as he gasps. Heat, blunt pressure, the _slide_ of penetration.

His breath catches in his throat; Todd is larger than Grayson and he can feel it, can _feel_ how he stretches to accommodate the girth of it. He trembles a bit, twisting the sheets between his fingers and clenching down, and Todd _stops_. Surprise flashes through him. He can feel Todd shift forward, leaning down over him, blanketing his back with heat and pressure and _still_ tall enough to press a kiss against the top of his head. One of Todd's hands finds his, prying it loose from the sheets and then lacing their fingers together, before Todd presses it back against the bed. Almost like a pin.

"Relax," Todd breathes, other elbow bracing against the bed beside his shoulder. "Just relax. It's a lot, I know, but you can take it. I promise, you can take it."

If Todd had _dared_ to speak to him like that in any other situation, he would have made certain that every syllable was repaid in pain. As it is he has a sharp rejoinder on the tip of his tongue — that he does not _need_ reassurance, that he is not a _child_ , that he can take _anything_ they can dish out (and that last part would be a lie) — but he lets it fade away, and twists his head into the sheets to bury his face instead of letting any of them see that the words are… appreciated.

He shivers, and Todd presses another kiss to his head, this one just above one of his ears. It is… enough. He takes in a deeper breath, and then forces himself to relax, to accept the intrusion, even though it feels big enough that his body is insisting that it probably shouldn't be happening. He wonders for a moment at the apparent fact that Todd worked him open enough for Grayson, but not for himself.

"That's it…”

Todd shifts down against him, pushing further in, and his mouth opens against the sheets so he can take another deep breath. He grips the fingers interlaced with his tightly as Todd settles into him. Deep, and he feels _so full_ he half expects that if he pressed a hand to his stomach he would feel Todd within him, as illogical and impossible as that actually is. It is all he can do simply to breathe evenly, and not allow himself to devolve into trembling. It is… _overwhelming_. By virtue of his size, as well as the angle, Todd is pressed unerringly against his prostate, and every minute shift sends little shocks of warm pleasure deep into his stomach.

Teeth graze over the shell of his ear, and he muffles a whine into the sheets, curling his feet so he can dig his toes into them as well. It feels good to have some level of leverage back, despite the fact that Todd is pressing him down into the bed. He could probably break free; if absolutely necessary.

Todd rocks against him, pressing an impossible fraction deeper for a moment, breath hot against his ear and neck. The next movement is more purposeful, a rocking thrust that slides against his nerves and draws a soft moan from his throat. He's barely breathed in when the inwards push steals it again, and he can feel— _God_ , he can _feel_ how Todd moves inside him, slick and _wet_ in a way that feels both disgustingly and _perfectly_ filthy. Certainly it's partially the lube, but the rest of it, the _other_ , is Grayson's release. That fact makes him shudder, makes him rock back against Todd to chase the feeling.

The hand pressed down over his grips tighter for a moment, and Todd gives a low, rumbling _growl_ into his ear. He gasps in response, fight or flight responses snapping to life with a burst of nerves in his chest as he recalls in an instant that Todd is still so much _stronger_ than him and there are teeth by his throat, he is partially pinned, he is _taken_. Todd is the kindest of them, but that does not make Todd _kind_ and he'd let himself forget that for a moment. Just because Grayson and Drake are actually sadists does not mean that Todd is less dangerous than them, he is simply _different_.

Todd is vicious and bestial when it suits him to be so, and even when he is not actively violent, the second Talon has a _ruthless_ streak and a head for strategy. Perhaps Todd actually is showing some level of kindness in teaching him how to stay on a level playing field with Drake, and in being gentle in contrast to Drake and Grayson. Perhaps Todd actually is attempting to help him, and keep him relatively unharmed through the night. But more likely Todd is making an ally of him, turning him against their brothers (and specifically Drake) to give them someone else to focus on. Todd is more than clever enough to see the advantage in such a plan, as well as it being simple self-preservation in ensuring that all three of them do not turn on him at once.

Did he not start this night wondering what it would be like to mark Todd's skin as they do?

"Not going to take much, is it?" Todd breathes into his ear, driving inside him at a steady pace now, each thrust rocking his hips down against the pillow. "Little Talon, you're so _easy_ to work up. I don't even need to pull out any of my tricks."

He gasps at the words, his back arching a bit, pulling away from Jason's chest. " _Todd_ , shut up!"

There's a rough laugh, straight into his ear, and his stomach clenches tight. "Then again, if you're going to be a brat, I should _treat_ you like one."

Then fingers are wrapping around his _throat_ , pressing against the bottom of his jaw, and he inhales sharply. He jerks but they only tighten and push his neck into an arch, trapping him between the hard grip and Todd's weight. He struggles, but his free hand can do very little more than claw at Todd's bicep, and the rest of him is pinned down too effectively to be of any real use. The grip around his throat tightens further, until he's gasping thinly for air, digging his too-blunt — why did he trim them so _short?_ — nails into Todd's arm and feeling his mind fog with the oxygen deprivation, head spinning as Todd continues to fuck him, deep and unrelenting even as he— he—

He gasps in a _deep_ breath when Todd's fingers suddenly loosen, allowing him to breathe again. Too deep; he knows better. His lungs protest the sudden influx of air, and he coughs the breath out before he can try again, forcing himself to breathe shallower at first. Todd's palm is still pressing into his throat, constricting how comfortably he can breathe at all. Those fingers squeeze down again and he shudders, anticipating the lack of air, swearing to do better this time because he _was_ trained to be able to hold his breath for long periods.

They ease.

Then, in his moment of confusion, he breathes out, and they _tighten_ all at once, cutting him off at the end of the breath when he has _nothing_. He gasps uselessly, jerking to try and get away, to try and destabilize Todd enough that he can escape the grip. But Todd is firm over him, ignoring the dig and scratch of his nails, legs pinning his in place and every thrust jarring him away from being able to gather himself enough to truly fight.

" _Relax_ , Dami," Todd whispers, into his throat. Which is nonsensical and he cannot _possibly_ obey, so he doesn't—

There's a laugh from above him, clearer than Todd's, sharper, and he snaps his eyes open. Drake and Grayson are watching, both with smirks, Drake lying beside Grayson with his head on his shoulder. Neither of them look like they're planning on helping. Not even as he seizes, reaches that same stage of _desperation._ And then Todd is abruptly letting go, letting him breathe again. He takes sharper breaths this time, shallow enough not to choke, not to waste the time he's allowed to breathe.

Grayson shifts, abandoning Drake for a moment to lean in and reach out to him, tracing fingers over his lips and then between them. He shivers, breath catching at another of Todd's brief squeezes, and Grayson commands, "Give in, little prince."

He can't speak, not with Todd's grip, but he does whine, trying to show his protestation, and confusion. He doesn't _understand_.

"Oxygen deprivation heightens arousal," Drake says, sounding smug. "If you _fight_ it, you'll panic. If you _trust_ that Jason knows how much you can take, it'll get you really high, really fast. _Relax_ , Damian, if any of us actually wanted you dead we wouldn't do it here."

He shivers, and Grayson's fingers slide off of his tongue as their eldest moves away, back to Drake. Todd gives another of those rough chuckles, and whispers, " _Watch_."

Drake looks like he's anticipating something, and what that is becomes clear very quickly when Grayson grips his throat, pinning him back against the headboard with an easy smile. He swallows, feels Todd's fingers minutely increase in pressure as he does, as Todd's thrusts slow to an easy rock inside of him, letting him truly pay attention. Drake's hands grip the pillow beneath him, curling tight, but he doesn't fight as Grayson's fingers dig into his throat, very precisely cutting off his air. He watches as Drake shakes, chokes on air he can't get, but not _once_ does he reach up and try to fight Grayson off. Not _once_ , until those fingers let go, does he move in any way that isn't instinctual and unconscious.

Drake breathes evenly when he's allowed to, and Grayson smiles a little wider, shifting in to sit beside him, fingers tracing down his throat. " _Good_ boy," Grayson murmurs. "Why don't you fetch me the lube, and I'll play with you until our little prince is ready for your turn?"

"As you wish," Drake breathes, leaning in to place an almost _reverent_ kiss to Grayson's shoulder before moving away. He only shifts past both of them for a moment, and then returns with the bottle they've been using, a generic looking clear one with a black label. Grayson takes it, tugging Drake in and pulling him down over his legs.

His breath catches for reasons entirely unrelated to the hand at his throat, but before he can truly react to the image Drake makes, spread over Grayson's lap, Todd is whispering, "You're lucky _I'm_ teaching you," in his ear. Barely a breath, probably not loud enough for Grayson to hear. "Dick doesn't stop until you go limp; one way or the other." Then, a little louder, "Let's try again, Damian. You can handle it as well as Tim, can't you?"

He manages a snarl — he does not _appreciate_ the manipulation — before Todd's hand tightens again. Immediately the urge to fight sinks in, and he digs his nails into Todd's arm to vent it because as much as he dislikes the manipulation, that does not mean it is not effective. If Drake learned to do this, _he_ can learn to do this. Todd is… Todd is skilled; he knows that. Either Todd has choked enough people to know precisely where the line is or Grayson taught him how, and either way he can be sure that Todd knows what he's doing.

He shudders, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to just allow Todd to do what he wishes. He does not manage it as well as Drake, but Todd lets him breathe sooner, which means he has to have done better. Todd begins to fuck him again, and before he even registers the desire he's giving a low moan because of it, the sound catching in his throat but still unmistakable. Todd laughs, and the fingers tighten again. It's difficult, but he forces himself to let go of Todd's arm and curl his hand into the sheets instead, struggling not to gasp for air and instead simply accept that he will not breathe until Todd wishes to let him.

Todd holds on longer this time, until his shoulders jerk spasmodically beneath the weight pressed over them, and then lets go. "Come on," Todd whispers. "You were watching me earlier, weren't you? Don't just endure it, _little prince._ Enjoy it; surrender _._ You know how to do it in a spar; do it _now_."

That makes… more sense. _That_ , he understands.

When Todd's fingers clench down again, he brings to mind what it is like to be beneath Grayson on a training mat. A knife at his throat, and their eldest never satisfied with anything less than complete submission. Never willing to release his pin or the threat holding them down until he receives his due tribute. He has surrendered to Grayson hundreds of times, and framed in that context it is easy enough to tilt his head back, to let his muscles go slack and his fingers release their hold on the sheets instead of continuing to fight the pin. He is held; his submission is owed.

" _That's_ it," Todd says, keeping the hand on his throat tight for the moment. "You just needed it explained the right way, didn't you?"

He can’t breathe, but it doesn’t matter. His life is in the hands of the victor, as it should be among family — only family. Grayson taught him that.

Todd eases the grip, and he takes in a shallow, measured breath beneath the threat of those fingers. Enough to get some air back, but not enough to threaten the mastery of the brother pressed down over his back. He’s played this game as well, more times than he can count. Grayson enjoys reinforcing his control, even outside of sexual settings, and there have been many times where Grayson would circle to his back during some meeting and slide a hand or knife around his throat, just to see if he would panic.

He learned not to.

Somehow, it makes an enormous amount of sense that the same rules that apply to sparring with Grayson apply in this setting as well. This is not so unlike a fight. Todd is usually less for mind games, but then, there _was_ a mention of him being lucky that Todd was the one to teach him as opposed to Grayson. This may be another power play by Todd to make him, in some small way, grateful. Not that he _doubts_ that what Todd said is true; he entirely believes that Grayson would leave someone unconscious if they did not realize they were supposed to submit. He entirely believes that Todd’s way is kinder.

“That’s good,” Todd murmurs, and he feels his mouth curl into a snarl again. “Oh relax, little Talon. I’m not mocking you.”

The grip around his throat is still tight enough to be constraining, but he can breathe in shallow, careful inhalations and that is more than enough for him to regain a sense of calm. A strange sense of calm, anyway. One that makes his careful breaths catch when Todd pushes his head up, trapping it back against one hard shoulder, and that makes him shudder when Todd pulls him upright and into a high kneel, the hand pinning his own dragging it up to wrap around his chest instead and support him. He leaves his eyes closed and stays relaxed, trusting that it would be in Todd's best interests not to let him fall. Drake would let go just to _make_ him fall, but Todd is not that cruel.

A moan slides between his lips as Todd rocks harder into him, the new angle not as deep but somehow obscenely more intimate, ‘trapped’ as he is against Todd’s chest. And like this Todd feels _massive_ , not just in the obvious ways but in the sheer thickness of the arm around his chest, and the _mass_ of the chest behind him. Todd is not _that_ much taller than him; a matter of a handful of inches, but he is _bigger_. Bigger than all of them. The rest of them are thinner, leaner, but Todd is closer to his Father’s build, built to stand and take a hit. Of course he’d noticed the difference in size, in spars — it made Todd tricky to beat; all too capable of using sheer size and strength to overwhelm in close quarters — but he’d never applied it to anything like _this_.

He feels _dwarfed_ ; it is not a sensation he is used to. It is not a sensation that is entirely unpleasant either.

Todd’s hand flexes on his throat and he can’t help the faint tremble that runs down his back, his free hand reaching back and grasping at Todd's side to ground himself. Distantly he can hear other noises, ones whose origins do not stem from him or Todd, and part of him wants to open his eyes and see what else is going on. But then Todd gives a low rumble of a growl in his ear, flexes the hand over his throat, and those thoughts slip from his mind like grains of sand. The world does not exist outside of Todd's touch; not right now.

He drifts, feeling every bit of sensation but it isn't until Todd chuckles, hand letting go of his and sliding down his stomach to wrap around him, that he realizes he's hard again. "I think he's a natural," Todd says, voice dark and amused and clearly not actually addressed to him.

He squirms anyway, pushing towards Todd's hand, and it's abruptly removed as if punishing him for the action. He whines, feeling Todd's teeth graze over his throat and up to his ear. They tug at his lobe, scrape over the top, and then Todd's grip tightens, stealing his breath from him. He shudders, but leans back into Todd's chest instead of fighting it. His chest grows tight, his mouth parting unconsciously, stomach clenching and releasing as his body tries to draw air and fail, and suddenly he _understands_ what Drake was talking about.

Todd releases him, he gasps in air, and the rush of oxygen makes his head spin, makes him _shake_ and give a broken keen at how _good_ it feels.

"That good enough for you, Timmy?" Todd asks, fingers scraping back up his stomach and gripping his arm again. There's a faint note of strain to Todd's voice, like he's actually struggling to hold back a bit, and he presses back against Todd as much as he can. Todd must get some kind of answer, because the next moment the hand on his throat is letting go and his arm's being pulled away from his chest.

He takes in a sharper breath as Todd twists his arm back behind him, other hand pressing flat between his shoulder blades and pushing him forward. Firm, not quite a shove, but he has little choice but to fold forward as Todd wants. His other arm is taken, twisted behind him as well, and he turns his head and opens his eyes to look back and try to see exactly what's being done. That's _quickly_ ruined when Todd folds his arms down across his back, wraps large hands around the points where his wrists are at their opposite elbows, and then _yanks_ him back onto a thrust.

He yelps, his head tossing back, and Todd's grip tightens as he tenses. It only makes him more aware of how very _deep_ Todd is, and he gasps in a breath that's promptly punched back out of him by being yanked back onto another thrust. Todd's grip is tight enough he can't twist free easily, and it lets his crossed arms be used as if they were reins and he a horse, and Todd's manipulation of it is as clearly masterful as any true rider. He is pulled back and forth at Todd's whim, brought back _hard_ to meet the slam of hips and then eased forward as Todd withdraws, his legs forced wide and too unstable to give him any leverage to change the situation. He is _helpless_.

"I _love_ when you do that," says a voice, Grayson's voice, and he forces himself to look down even as his body demands he arch. Grayson is sliding past him, Drake lying on the bed and watching with a smirk, one hand lowered between his legs and pulling lazily at a half-hard cock.

He cries out at the next thrust, neck arching along the same line as his spine and completely out of his control, a little _spark_ of pain sharpening everything as Todd slams too deep into him. Todd's rhythm doesn't falter as Grayson presumably approaches him, though it does speed a little, enough to have him writhing against the grip and exhaling sharp bursts of sound with every inwards shove, his eyes squeezing shut.

"I know," Todd answers, voice breathless and strained. Then Todd groans, pace breaking for a moment with a harsh jerk into him, a stutter of hips. It evens out again, perhaps a little more desperate than before, and Todd hisses, " _Fuck_. Jesus, _Dick,_ do that again."

Grayson laughs, bright and delighted. "Ask nicely, Jason."

It shouldn't surprise him that Todd — instead of bristling, instead of pulling away, instead of _refusing_ — just gives a dark groan and then begs, " _Please_. Fuck, Dick, _please_. I'm so _fucking_ close, I—”

Whatever Grayson does it must be _more_ than Todd asked for, because he jerks forward again and shouts, strained and cracking at the end. Todd grinds into him, jerks again, and then he chokes at the feeling of Todd's release spilling into him; a vague sense of heat and wetness and he _squirms_ and can't help but clench. That drags a surprised sounding grunt from Todd, and a throb he can _feel_ at the stretch of his body, and he sucks in a sharp little breath at the feeling. It's unfamiliar, intimate, and there is _heat_ in his belly and his cheeks, a _desire_ for more.

Unlike with Grayson, he is not satisfied. But as he recalls Todd was never meant to satisfy him, only to work him high again and fill the space between, so Drake could be the last to take him. He shivers at the thought, bridles a bit, but… Perhaps Drake will not be so bad. Pain is pain; he can handle it.

Todd shifts away, letting go of his arms a moment before pulling out of him, and he gives a protesting whine at the feeling of being once again empty and open. More intense now; Todd was larger and he feels _stretched_.

He starts to shift forward, and hands grab his hips and keep him still, forcing them to cant down and his back to arch, forcing him to _present_. Movement to the side, and the heavy _thump_ of a body falling to the bed with a tired groan — Todd — confirms that it must be Grayson holding him. He surrenders to that, sliding down until his cheek rests against the bed.

"Keep this up," Grayson corrects, mildly. "Wouldn't want to spill any of what we've given you, would you, little prince?" He shivers as one of Grayson's hands slides in, slipping between his cheeks and pressing fingers to him, sliding two _inside_ him with no resistance. "You're so _wet_ , baby," Grayson purrs, and he didn't think he could flush _harder_ but the words and the _sound_ of Grayson's fingers inside him — filthy, _wet_ noises — somehow make it possible. "Let's see how much wetter we can get you, hm?"

He whimpers, but his cock _throbs_ as desire rushes through him; he _wants_. He pushes his ass back towards Grayson's hands, and gets a laugh for it. The fingers withdraw.

"Tim," Grayson commands, "come make him _scream_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, last chapter here we go! (And Tim's turn!) I am... mildly sick, so that's going to be all the note for today. Enjoy!

_"Tim," Grayson commands, "come make him **scream**."_

He lifts his gaze from the sheets, up to Drake, as he shifts across the bed. Grayson's hands are still holding his hips, keeping them tilted up and his back forced into the slope of an arch. An arch he is entirely willing to keep, though he keeps careful track of Drake's passage across the bed. He almost twitches away from the hand that slides across the curve of his ass, but Grayson's hands flex a bit, down across the slightly sore areas that might bruise from his earlier grip, and he forces himself to stay still.

He tilts his head to keep track as Drake comes up beside Grayson, fingers slipping down and into him with little preamble. His breath catches, fingers curling into the sheets. Drake's fingers feel so much more invasive than Grayson's did, and as they slide within him, pressing against him, he takes a slow breath and reminds himself that Drake's fingers are smaller, and it is a physical impossibility that they are reaching deeper in him than Grayson's.

"Are you really attached to the idea of keeping him full like this?" Drake asks, pressed up against Grayson's side, mouth at his shoulder. The fingers slip free from him, wiping off on the skin beside it, which curls his mouth into a snarl.

Grayson's eyes narrow slightly, but it comes with the curl of a sharp smirk. "Maybe. What are you thinking, Tim?"

Drake leans up, speaking directly into Grayson's ear in a voice too quiet for him to hear more than the suggestion of. Whatever it is makes Grayson laugh, which worries him a bit, before Grayson catches Drake's mouth in a kiss. The closer hand leaves his hip and rises to slide back through Drake's hair, curling tight into the strands and pulling him into an arch. He watches as Drake folds willingly, bending backwards as Grayson dips him into a low arch, the only steadying points the hand curled in the hair at the base of his skull and the single hand that Drake's dropped to brace against the bed near his low back. Not enough to sustain that curve, not really, and Drake's muscles quiver with the effort.

Grayson keeps him there, held down, through a long, thoroughly possessive kiss. Then he draws back, just enough to shift down, to press lips to a spot low on the front of Drake's throat and then bare teeth and _bite_. Drake gasps, hisses, but doesn't pull away. When Grayson pulls back, there's a tint of red to his teeth, a bit of blood on his bottom lip that he licks away. Drake trembles more noticeably, breath catching. That makes Grayson smile, other hand abandoning his hip as well to trace fingers down the center of Drake's chest. The muscles contract beneath the path of those nails, Drake's stomach drawing in on instinct.

"That's good," Grayson murmurs, pulling Drake back up inch by inch. "Jay's right; you've got a great mind, sweet boy."

Drake's return smirk is wicked, the blood beading on his throat not seeming to bother him at all. Grayson kisses his forehead, then lets go of his hair and pulls back. One of Grayson's hands smooths up his side, calling his attention, as if he wasn't already looking.

"Damian, you're going to do what Tim wants you to, is that clear?" Grayson’s tone is coaxing, low, but he’d be an idiot to think there was any real opportunity to argue with it.

“Yes,” he agrees, grudgingly. Drake’s smirk rubs against him the wrong way, but he still knows better than to try and deny Grayson what he wants unless he is entirely, completely against it.

The fingers press in against his side, squeezing for a moment as Grayson leans down and presses a kiss to just above his hip. “Good boy,” comes the praise, and he shivers just a little bit, warmth coiling low in his gut to join the rest. Then Grayson pulls back, reaching out to slide those fingers over Drake’s cheek before granting, “Go ahead.”

Drake tilts into the fingers for a moment before moving away, shifting across the bed and coming up near his head. One hand extends, sliding through his hair, and only Grayson’s implicit command to obey keeps him from pulling away. He does curl his lips into a small snarl though; it won’t do to let Drake think that he is easy prey.

Drake pulls away from him, moving farther up the bed until he turns around, sitting comfortably with his back against the headboard. One hand curls fingers to beckon him closer, along with the verbal command of, “Come here, Damian.”

He pauses a moment, as he pushes up on his arms and rises to his hands and knees instead of keeping the subservient arch of his back. He wishes that he knew more about these acts, because then he might know what Drake is planning. The fact that he is inexperienced in this arena has been made plain, and it's frustrating and irritating that he is so very... _naive_ about all this. Dry mechanics, and the knowledge that Drake and Grayson cause Todd pain, was apparently not enough to adequately prepare him. He should have _prepared_ for the eventuality of being invited to play with them.

Before any of them can snap at him, he moves forward towards Drake. He keeps their gazes locked, refuses to give Drake that small satisfaction, even as he crawls up to him. Drake reaches out when he gets closer, and he bares his teeth but doesn't resist the tangling of fingers through his hair or the light pull that coaxes him closer. Drake's other hand slides over his thigh, gripping it and pulling him up and over. He presses his hands against Drake's chest, both balancing himself and pushing Drake back against the headboard.

Drake may be older than him, and more experienced, but _he_ is larger. Taller now, and with more muscle than their smallest brother. He has the advantage in strength. Although that means very little with Grayson's command hanging over his head; regardless of strength, or speed, or size, he is not foolhardy enough to go against the eldest of them. Grayson gets what he wants.

Drake’s hand slides back from his thigh, over his ass to grip one cheek and pull it slightly sideways. He flushes at the feeling of being pulled open, and then much _harder_ when he can _feel_ wetness trickle down, sliding filthy and altogether too _present_ down towards his balls. He digs his fingers into Drake’s chest in retaliation, clenching his knees in against either side of the hips they’re spread over.

There’s a rough chuckle from the other side of the bed, and he glances that direction in time with Drake.

It’s Todd, lying spread across the bed with Grayson now at his back and curled slightly over him, mouth at his throat and hands on his chest. Both pairs of blue eyes are watching them, Todd with plain amusement and Grayson with brighter interest, even as he idly traces the lines of the older scars Todd wears. He swallows as Todd's mouth curls, flashing teeth in a vicious kind of smile.

"You're like a pair of fluffed up cats," Todd comments, voice a deep rumble. "Save the claws for once you're fucking, little Talons."

He bares his teeth right back, giving a snarl as he spits, "I am not _little_ , Todd."

Grayson buries a smile — and teeth — in Todd's neck, and there's a thick groan before Todd laughs, eyes flickering closed. "You're _all_ little to me." A small arch, baring more of his throat to Grayson, and Todd grins and adds, "Maybe not Dick; depending on how straight you're standing."

He half expects Grayson to make Todd bleed for that comment, but he only draws slightly back and then presses Todd forward a couple inches, so he's closer to being on his stomach. "Or how hard I pull you _down_ ," Grayson purrs.

He stares, brow drawing into a shallow frown at the easy teasing, and the clear intimacy between Grayson and Todd. He knew that Todd had claim to a special part of Grayson's heart; that was always clear, since the very first time he saw them together. Even fighting, even tearing for each other's throats, there was an unmatched grace and familiarity between them, an _understanding_ that he couldn't grasp. Todd will always be special to Grayson in a way he never will, and that—

Drake pulls at his hair, dragging him closer and refocusing his attention. "Jealousy is an ugly look on you," Drake whispers, perhaps not loud enough to be heard, considering the groan from Todd that covers the words.

"I—” he starts, fully intending to deny any suggestion that he is _jealous_.

Before he can even voice the words, Drake says, "Yes you are." The hand slides up from his ass to the small of his back, skimming over earlier cuts and then pressing, forcing him to come closer. They're lined almost entirely against each other, and Drake smiles one of his thin, cool, dangerous smiles, leans in to speak against the ear hidden from the others, and murmurs, "Jason is something to Dick that we’ll never be. Every relationship is different, Damian; don’t envy one you can’t have.”

“I do not need your reminder, _Drake_.” He shoves against Drake’s chest, but he’s already pressed to the headboard so it doesn’t really do anything except make Drake’s hand press harder against his back, fingers finding open cuts and scratching across them.

He hisses, genuinely considering _biting_ some of that open skin on the side of Drake’s throat, and Drake seems to sense it because the hand in his hair suddenly pulls him back an inch. Then Drake is turning his head and lips are brushing over his. He inhales sharply, stiffening, and Drake _bites_ him before he even considers doing the same. He flinches back at the sharp slice of pain on his lower lip, blood quickly finding its way onto his tongue and spreading the copper taste across it.

Drake releases him, knocking him back a couple inches with the push of one shoulder, and then grabs his wrists and twists his hands outwards before he can act on the urge to dig his nails — however blunt they happen to be — into Drake’s chest and _rake_ lines into the paler skin. He pulls against the hold, baring his teeth, and Drake’s still smiling, tongue sliding out to lick a drop of blood from his lower lip.

“Ride me, Damian,” Drake orders, voice smooth with satisfaction and _smug_. “Think you can manage that?”

He stalls, snarl faltering on his lips as that command fully registers. He may be inexperienced, but he has watched… videos. He knows what that means, and therefore what the position Drake has pulled him into is intended to facilitate. Drake, with the backing of Grayson, intends to make him do this himself. If he knows Drake — and he _does_ — there will be no missed opportunity to embarrass or otherwise humiliate him. There will also likely be little, if any, chance to turn the tables to his favor. Drake, for all his irritations, is _ruthlessly_ intelligent. This is calculated.

The sneer comes naturally, but he doesn't waste his strength or time pulling against the hold on his wrists. "Is that all?" he says, holding himself straight and looking down the several inches of height difference between them with all the natural arrogance of his birth. Drake will _not_ intimidate him, whatever else he may manage. He is _far_ from a child, no matter how outmatched he may be in this particular battleground.

Drake looks just a little bit studying, as if his answer isn't entirely what was expected, but it vanishes beneath the cool smile after barely a moment. "That's all."

His hands are released, and he draws them away, testing his weight across his knees as he draws up onto them, deciding just how bluntly to go about this. He doubts he actually requires more lube, given what is already inside him, and he isn't positive where the bottle ended up so that's probably for the best. He should be able to simply reach down, aim, and take Drake into himself with little to no trouble. Drake is not as big as Todd was.

Before his consideration can be taken as hesitance he does just that, reaching down and curling fingers around Drake's length with as little care as he can manage. It has been in his mouth already, so what difference will this make? Drake knows that he would not obey so readily if Grayson's words weren't backing him; he would make Drake _fight_ for control, not just give it. He would like to know what Drake looks like pinned beneath the weight of one of the rest of them. Or all.

He shifts a little higher upwards, and Drake says, " _Oh_ ," as if he's just recalled something. "Turn around, Damian."

Now he does pause, fingers still wrapped around Drake but his body stilled, for the moment. "Excuse me?"

Drake's satisfaction is nearly _palpable._ "Turn around. Back to me. You understand the position, right?"

He bridles. He _understands_ , which is why he doesn't want to. Riding Drake backwards will make him _vulnerable_. It will expose his wounded back to two free, sadistic hands, and leave him blind to anything that Drake may try to pull. Neither of those are things he wants to allow.

" _Damian_ ," comes the warning from across the bed, Grayson's voice gone sharp and pointed.

He takes in a sharp breath, shoulders trembling as the urge to submit to that voice slides across them. But the fact remains that, "I do not _trust_ him."

He hears the bed shift, and risks a tiny glance sideways to confirm that it's Grayson rising, climbing over Todd and heading for him. He shivers a little harder, but does not relinquish his position. Drake is _dangerous_ , and barely his ally most days. How can he put his back towards that kind of danger, willingly? Drake could tear him to pieces if offered that kind of vulnerability. Drake _would_.

Grayson comes to kneel at Drake's side, looking at both of them. One hand rises, tracing up his closer arm then all the way to his neck, and finally his cheek. He tilts into it, just barely, and deems it an acceptable risk to move his gaze far enough sideways — away from Drake — to meet Grayson's eyes instead. They're slightly narrowed, but there's not the hard steel and slight _anger_ that he's learned to identify when Grayson is truly upset. The smile is small; not dangerous, yet.

“You need to learn to,” Grayson says, voice lowered to something coaxing once again, but still unforgiving. “He’s family, little prince; Tim won’t hurt you beyond what you can endure.”

He swallows. “I did not believe _endurance_ was the point of sex.”

There’s a pause as Grayson looks at him, head tilting to blatantly study him, expression otherwise unreadable in a particularly unsettling way. He fights the instinctive urge to draw away, and Grayson’s eyes narrow a touch further before he murmurs, “What’s the real problem, Dami?”

His body betrays him, freezing up for a moment. Then, as it loosens, he bites his tongue to consider before he carefully says, “I am _not_ a punching bag.” His thighs clench, digging his knees into Drake’s hips as he shoots a sharp snarl that way for just a fraction of a second. “If Drake wishes to hurt me, _fine_ , but let me make him _earn_ it. Do not keep me leashed under the promise of obedience, Grayson.”

Grayson just watches him, silent, and he swallows. Then, determined to make his point, forges ahead.

“I am not Todd,” he reminds them both. “I do not _enjoy_ being harmed, or debased, and I have endured it this far only because _you_ asked it of me. If what you want is someone to lie still and allow themselves to be bruised and bloodied, I should not be here. That is not who I am.” He hesitates, then lowers his voice and almost pleads, “Grayson, _do not_ make me play the victim.”

A last moment passes, and then Grayson slides a thumb over his cheek and leans in, catching his mouth in a kiss softer than any other he's been given so far. It still stings against the split of his bottom lip, but the pain is minor enough he can ignore it. He eases into the touch, parting his mouth when Grayson's tongue flickers across his lip so that it can slip inside instead. Grayson holds him mostly still with the hand on the side of his head, taking his mouth in a slow, unhurried exploration. He leans towards it and chases Grayson's mouth when it slides away, until the fingers on the side of his head curl into his hair and stop him.

Grayson pulls back far enough that he opens his eyes, but stays close enough that an exhale brushes air across his face. "Damian, _ride_ him," Grayson commands.

He's let go, and there's a strange surge of disappointment in his chest as Grayson moves away, back towards Todd. He was expecting… Something more. Something _else_. Grayson has never demanded that he simply allow someone else to hurt him; not even as part of any of their training. He does not want to believe—

"You two can figure the details out on your own," Grayson adds, as he lies down in front of Todd, pressing back against him. "Can't you?"

He realizes what that sentence is — _permission_ — apparently a moment before Drake, and he _strikes_ the instant he does.

He turns and lashes out with one palm, slamming it into the center of Drake's chest to wind him. The rush of air, and wide eyes, are instantly satisfactory, and he twists his strength into his other arm to grab Drake's jaw and _slam_ his head back against the headboard. A punch hits his upper arm, but Drake is dazed and the power behind it is only mediocre; certainly not enough to actually stop him. He ignores the way Drake is curling up against him, hand grasping at his arm, and curls his fingers around Drake's upper arms in turn, so he can wrench his predecessor sideways and throw him down at the bed.

It's firm enough that he bounces about an inch, which makes him an easy, uncoordinated target for that moment. He takes advantage of it, grabbing Drake's arms and dragging them in to shove his wrists down above his head. He makes sure he has a decent grip, with one hand grinding both of Drake's wrists together, and then shoves his other hand downwards. He doesn't have the weight or raw strength that it would require to keep Drake pinned like that, but he only needs to for a _moment_.

Drake's mouth starts to curl in a sneer, wrists twisting against his half-pin, and he wraps his fingers around Drake's cock. There's an instant gasp, and he doesn't waste an _instant_ lining Drake up at the right angle and then pushing down. His head tilts back, and he gasps at the feeling, the _angle_ , but forces himself to push past it and reach forward again even as he settles down on top of Drake's hips. He takes each of Drake's wrists in his opposite hand, pulling them down to either side of his head so that his forearms are crossed over Drake's throat, pinning his head down along with the wrists he's pressing into the mattress.

It's not a particularly effective pin against a trained opponent, especially not with a good bit of his weight on his knees, but he doesn't need it to be. _Drake_ is the one held fast by his own body; any twisting or bucking is more likely to injure his more _fragile_ parts than to actually destabilize him enough for Drake to gain the advantage. There are _disadvantages_ to being the one to 'take,' he is learning. There is vulnerability there as well, of a different sort.

He gives a sharp grin down at Drake, who is finally clearing, finally recovering from his initial strikes. The rise and fall of his chest is still rapid, but he's breathing instead of simply struggling for air, and his gaze is no longer clearly dazed. In fact, those lips are curling once again into a sneer, legs shifting up behind him, giving Drake leverage where he had little before, not that it will matter.

"You would not want to injure any _important_ parts, would you?" he says through his grin, as he grinds downwards to make a point of exactly what he means. "I may be inexperienced, but I know which ways this is not supposed to _bend_." Satisfaction rushing thick and heavy through his veins, and mixing with reemerging desire, he leans more weight onto Drake's wrists — and throat — and hisses, "Little slow tonight, _Drake?_ " down at him, echoing the earlier words said to him.

Drake's gaze is sharp and cold, sneer turned into a true snarl. Then it slips away, to easy arrogance and a smirk. "You have no idea what you're _doing_ , Damian," Drake says, voice a little breathless but not any more than can be expected.

"I have an _idea_ ," he retaliates, baring a bit more of his teeth in his grin.

He has watched _enough_ to know the movements. The movement of muscles is nothing more than exactly that; the purpose of the act they are applied to doesn't matter. He can remember how the women — and men — in his videos moved when they were atop another, how their backs arched a touch, how their hips _rolled_ more than lifted. Simple muscle movements and he mimics them, paying attention to the slide of Drake inside of him, to the moment it feels as though he may slip out before he drives down again. Drake inhales sharply, throat pressing against his arms as his head tilts back. He does it again.

It is… good enough. He does not have the angle right yet — he remembers how Grayson and Todd drove against his prostate, and the deep _ache_ that inspired — but that is only a matter of trial and error. He has power over Drake, has him pinned and currently still, and that is more pleasing than anything he's currently getting from the actual fucking.

Drake twists against his grip, eyes flickering shut for a half a second, and he bears more of his weight down onto Drake's wrists as he rolls his hips. "Looks like an _idea_ is more than enough for you," he taunts, his voice having that same slight edge of breathlessness.

There's a laugh from across the bed, Grayson, and he glances briefly to the side. Grayson is lying with his back pressed up against Todd, bodies fitting neatly together with Todd's head resting just above his, and both powerful arms hooked around his chest. Grayson looks almost _contained_ , though of course that isn't the case. Grayson merely seems entirely comfortable allowing Todd to hold him, eased back against his chest and comfortable. Todd is relaxed as well, eyes half-lidded and lazy desire clear in them, gaze fixed on the two of them.

No words come, so he focuses his attention on Drake again, putting aside the thought of Grayson and Todd watching him. Let them watch; it's no different than either of them standing at the edges of the mat when he draws Drake as a sparring partner. He's learned not to let the distraction of outward observance influence his performance.

He rolls his hips, finding a rhythm to settle into, adjusting the angle as he moves until he finally pushes down and it's _right_. His eyes flicker, mouth parting in a moan as pleasure sparks up his spine, and he immediately does it again, and _again_. Drake is breathing shallowly beneath him, throat brushing his wrists with every shift, cheeks flushed in desire. He can feel the way Drake is lifting his hips a bit to meet each of his rolls, and he can _feel_ how the combined mess of Grayson and Todd's releases has leaked from him, out to trail over the inside of his thighs and onto Drake as well.

The feeling is _filthy_ , and if this encounter had not already gone as it has, perhaps he would be embarrassed by that. As it is, it only heats the desire building in his belly. It is a new feeling, unfamiliar, but undeniably arousing in a certain way, especially with the knowledge lingering in the back of his mind that Grayson and Todd are watching, and they can probably _see_ it.

He drives himself onto Drake, baring his teeth so that his sounds at least come out muffled, even if he can not entirely control them. Drake is quieter than him, even with his teeth blocking some of the noise, and unresisting. His wrists twist against his grip, intermittently, and his back arches off the bed some, but his noises aside there is no attempt to regain control from him. It makes him a bit wary, but he simply bears more weight down onto Drake's wrists and pushes the thought aside. There will be at least some warning if Drake tries to unseat him.

Overwhelming that sense of wariness is the pleasure building in his gut, slower than the first time that Todd and Grayson so expertly wound him up, but still inevitable. _That_ is a familiar feeling, although he is also aware that pleasure at his own hands has very rarely been as intense as this. This is a slower build, less efficient, but he's finding that the slower build means a _higher_ one as well.

He has the angle now, and he loses track of Drake somewhat as he reaches the pinnacle, where his body coils tight and he knows just a little more, just a little _further_ …

Suddenly Drake is surging free, wrists twisting loose from his grip simultaneously, and before he can do more than snap his eyes open Drake is shoving at one side of his chest and pulling at the other, hips twisting to unbalance him and the world _tilts_ as Drake slides free. He hits the bed on his back, automatically arching from the pain of the impact against his cuts, and that steals his breath for a long enough moment that Drake can reach down and grab his calves, pushing his legs up along the length of his body. He gasps more in surprise than at the actual pain of the stretch, as Drake pins his ankles to either side of his head and bears down onto them. His shoulders are trapped beneath his own calves, forcing him flat against the bed and giving him a terrible angle to do anything with his hands other than grasp at Drake's forearms.

All of which doesn't matter because before he can think of a way to truly struggle, Drake smirks down at him and _slams_ back inside, and he cries out. He's still hovering on that edge, and Drake gives him _no_ time to come down from it, or recover enough to put up a fight. He squirms as much as he can, but apart from digging his nails into Drake's arms he can't do much of anything but take it.

The thrusts are too perfectly aimed, dragging against his prostate. He can't stop himself from moaning, interspersed with little high-pitched, gasping cries when Drake pushes _harder_ , takes him _faster_. His throat arches as he slips over that edge, eyelids flickering, nails digging _hard_ into Drake's arms as he gasps a breath and then _screams_.

Drake doesn't stop.

The scream dies to a cry, tears dampening his eyes as Drake just continues to fuck him, abusing over-sensitive nerves and drawing his orgasm out into a long, tenuous thread that stretches and _stretches_ and then finally snaps. He goes all but limp, hands almost slipping off of Drake's arms if not for their faint curl, breath coming hard and fast and hitching every time Drake slides against his prostate to light another sharp burst of pleasure through him. He trembles, the sensation almost painful now in its level of intensity, his teeth clenching together as he gives a long, almost-pleading whine.

Drake gasps, hands tightening on his calves, and his hips stutter. The fingers clench down almost hard enough to bruise. Drake cries out and pushes deep, weight bearing down on him, and his breath catches hard at the feeling of Drake spilling inside him. He breathes hard, trying to regain his composure before Drake manages to regain his.

Before either of them actually does, there's movement on the bed. He opens his eyes in time to watch Drake get pulled away from him by Todd, up against a chest double his size, head tilted back against a shoulder. He shivers when Drake slips from him, but before he can do more than part his mouth Grayson is there, easing his legs down and then pulling him back to cradle him against the headboard. He lets himself sag against Grayson, clutching lightly at the arms that circle his chest.

"What a good boy you are, Dami," Grayson murmurs into his ear. He can hear the low buzz as Todd says something to Drake as well, but he can't make out what it is and doesn't care to look. "That's round one, little prince."

He looks up, something dangerously helpless settling in his limbs as he registers that they are _far_ from done with him. "Grayson," he breathes, "I— I am not sure—”

"Shhh…” Grayson hushes him, mouth in a small smile. "Told you we were going to wear you out, didn't I? I know what you can handle; you won't have to take more than that. Trust me, Dami?"

There is no other answer but, "Always."

* * *

The morning finds him curled in the center of three other bodies. Grayson is at his back when he wakes, consciousness coming to him slow and with difficulty, like dragging himself from the depths of a pit. He aches in places he wasn't aware he could, feels sore and — his mouth twists with faint displeasure — sticky. _Gross_. When he cracks his eyes it's Drake lying in front of him, still relaxed in sleep and tangled with him, forehead almost pressed to his with how close they are.

Todd is past that, easily discernible by his bulk, and with one heavy arm thrown almost all the way over them, fingers resting on Grayson's side. Grayson and Drake are still breathing slow and even, in the patterns of heavy sleep, but when he tilts his head slightly up to look, Todd's eyes are open. Lazy, almost soft as he looks down at the rest of them from his higher position on the pillows. He meets that gaze as he manages to open his eyes a little more normally, and Todd's mouth curls in a small smile.

He seems… unguarded. _Relaxed_ , in a way that would get him shredded by the rest of their family if they were awake.

Todd's arm shifts, hand rising from Grayson's side and lifting to his face instead, combing his hair back. One finger brushes his mouth, and he lets his eyes close for a moment, enjoying the touch. No one else is awake to see, and it is not as if he can easily remove himself from between Drake and Grayson. His legs are tangled with Drake's, his arm is over Drake, and Grayson has a arm wrapped down around his chest too, holding him firm. It would wake both of them if he tried to leave.

The movement seems to be enough though, because Drake shifts between them, giving a quiet groan, one hand pressing flat to his chest as if to feel. He opens his eyes again, watching as Drake's eyes blink open. Those blue eyes are hazy, tired, and take a few moments to focus on his face. There's a small flicker of surprise, before Todd shifts and presses closer to Drake's back, head dipping to kiss the top of his head. Drake blinks again, tilting his head to look back until he can see Todd.

He eyes the bare, vulnerable line of Drake's throat for a moment before letting it go. This is not the time to do damage.

A second kiss is pressed to Drake's forehead, and Drake shifts with more purpose, legs sliding against his, head lowering again as the hand on his chest slides against it. Grayson is the only one of them still asleep when Drake gives a curling smirk and murmurs, "You're surprisingly conscious, Damian."

He scoffs, keeping his voice low as he answers, "Perhaps you are not as effective as you thought."

Todd hushes them both, arm lowering to hook over them both and then drag them closer together. "Not in the mornings, kids. Save the claws for while you're fucking, remember?"

"As if he has the energy," Drake mocks, though he does press harder back against Todd and settle in a bit.

He scowls, feeling Grayson shifting at his back, breath stuttering into a shorter pattern, into wakefulness. "I was awake before you," he points out, grip tightening where his arm is still resting over Drake's waist and down against his low back. Drake ignores him, and he feels anger — and something far less pure, something _wanting_ — stir in his chest.

"What's going on?" Grayson murmurs, voice rough with sleep as the hand over his chest slides fingers across his skin.

"Kids are bickering," Todd answers. "They're fine."

Grayson chuckles against the back of his skull, as he glares at Drake. "A couple more hours," Grayson commands, pressing closer. "Go back to sleep, boys."

Drake smirks at him, eyes closing as he settles back against Todd. Irrational anger, and _desire_ , comes to a sudden sharp head.

He allows himself to be pressed closer to Drake, but the second he is in range he jerks forward and _bites_ into Drake's shoulder. He gets a sharp cry of shock for it, Drake's hand shoving hard against his chest as Todd and Grayson startle. Before either of them can separate this, he twists and gets enough freedom that he can grab Drake by the arms and shove him back and down, half onto his back and half onto Todd's chest. He relaxes his jaw and backs off as Grayson pulls him back a touch, but refuses to go any further.

He gives a sharp grin, meeting Drake's glare, and spits, "First blood wins the right to top. _My turn_ , Drake."

Drake's eyes widen a bit, Grayson's grip eases away, and Todd barks out surprised laughter. He raises his head, meeting Todd's grin and gaze.

"Would you like to join me, Todd?"

Drake hisses wordless protest, but Todd's grin sharpens, eyes narrowing a little.

"Sure."


End file.
